Return to Southside
by Ilducadimantova
Summary: Stefan and Elena return to Mystic Falls after a summer in Italy, to find that Damon has wreaked havoc on the peaceful town.


The sun loomed low overheard, screened by the ancient oaks, as the gravel crunched under the tyres of a sparkling black S-Class. It came to a gentle stand before the elegant Georgian facade that marked the 'road' side of the Veritas estate, although in this case it was not traversed by a road at all, but rather the end of the Salvatores' driveway. Elena stepped from the rear as Teena, the maid, and Uncle Ben, the butler and factotum, hurried down the stairs to meet them.

"You were gone for no time at all, sir," he said, addressing Giuseppe first. Then he turned to Stefan and Elena. "Welcome home Mr Stefan, Mrs Elena. It sure is go to have you folks back home."

Stefan smiled and nodded, as did Elena. "There's no place like home!" she said. She meant it: indeed, when she thought about it, it surprised her how quickly she'd come to think of Veritas — or Chateau Salvatore, as she liked to call it — as home.

It _was _good to be home. They'd come back from Florence via Atlanta, with a connecting flight to Richmond. Giuseppe had brought them back to Mystic Falls, a scenic drive winding through endless woods, pastures and now, the tobacco fields of home, slowly being emptied of their golden harvest, for it was now October and the harvest was well underway. The leaves had started to turn too, though green still predominated.

Elena smiled as she surveyed as she caught the aroma in the air. The tobacco, the leaves, the warm days without the heat and humidity — the fall had always been her favourite season; Stefan's too.

Giuseppe to read their thoughts. "A great harvest this year," he said with pride. "We've had enough rain, the weather's held, and the price is very good this year. Now tell me about Florence!" he said, leading them through the hall, out to garden side of the house and its monumental portico with slender Corinthian columns that stretched the whole width and height of the house. They settled into rockers, and Teena appeared with refreshments.

"Florence was amazing! We had the best time. Stefan showed me your family's old palace, in the heart of the city, and we saw all the great churches and galleries. And the shopping..!" Elena trailed off.

"It was good to go back again," Stefan said. "I feel renewed!"

Giuseppe chuckled. "Going to the land of rebirth will do that to you. Look at him, all starry-eyed," he said, indicating Stefan. "You should've seen him when he came back from Italy that first summer, when he was seventeen."

Stefan smiled and shrugged in defeat. "I've been hooked ever since."

Elena giggled. "I doubt he could be worse than when you geeked out at the Uffizi, once again. Or in the cafès! Have you seen him, drinking his little coffee like he was a native!?" she teased, poking him.

They all smiled, lapsing into a silence as golden as the glow of the afternoon sun. The portico faced west, the view expanding from the vast, plush lawn, framed by very old, very tall boxwoods, toward the Blue Ridge in the distance.

"I'll tell you one thing," Stefan said at length. "They don't have bourbon like this in Italy."

Giuseppe smiled. "Don't they?" His face suddenly darkened. "They don't have Damon there, either," he said, volume increasing. "I'm so glad you decided to stay those extra three weeks. You avoided encountering him as brought his parasitic, dishonourable self back to Mystic Falls."

"Father, Damon makes his choices according to his interests... Even if they're—"

"Wrong!" Giuseppe roared. He calmed himself, rising. "Stefan, your mother would be proud of your loyalty and honour." He paused. "I didn't prepare anything grand for this evening," he said. "I thought we might save it for tomorrow, and we'll have your parents and Jeremy and Jenna?"

"I'd love that." Elena smiled. It had felt odd to go to Paris without Mom and Dad. She missed them — though in a good way.

As the master of the house walked inside, Stefan turned to Elena.

"Thank you for a beautiful summer, Mrs Salvatore," he said, taking her hand.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr Salvatore." She stood, her other hand drifting over his cheek. "I'm was honoured to be shown the delights of Florence." She paused, her tone becoming less playful. "I'm just going to freshen up before dinner," she said, her hand through his hair around the temple. "Are you okay?"

Stefan blinked, and then shrugged. "You know..." He trailed off. Elena sighed and nodded. Yes, she knew all about Damon's malignant effect on the family. She traced her hand across his shoulders as she left in sympathy.

Only after Elena had gone did Stefan sit back slump in the rocker and release a burst of breath in vexation. His thoughts trod a familiar path as he wondered exactly how he and Damon had grown so far apart. Once he had held no person dearer or in greater confidence that his brother. Now, their relationship was damaged and opaque, and Damon's intentions seemed as dark as the night that was beginning to cloak the boxwoods and obscure the lawn. As a child, Stefan had been scared to be alone on the portico in the fading light, terrified by the thought of what monsters might be lurking over the protective hedging, ready to pounce under the cover of darkness. His brother had delighted in supplying the basic outline of all manner of evil beasts and spirits that might have conspired to harm him, and his over-active imagination couldn't help but extrapolate them. Now, that same mind, applied so lovingly to art, literature and law, churned in infinite stream of worry that could be summed in a sole word: Damon.

Freshly showered, long dark hair washed and dried, an elegant dress, fresh from Milan, on her slender frame — Elena felt entirely renewed. The summer _had_ been magnificent. Just her and beloved, away from the cares of everyday life: her work as a journalist for the Bedford Times-Democrat, Stefan's studies at the Washington & Lee Law School, their respective families and such.

Now they were back. She imagined the articles that she would soon be writing: one on the progress of the fall colours, no doubt. The latest news from Roanoke and Lynchburg, and the activists of the Historical Society. Her thoughts drifted to the manuscript she had started, a tale of love and loss in the Civil War and the post-bellum South. Over numerous lazy afternoons in Italy, with a plentiful supply of wine and good food, she'd made considerable progress.

Elena shook her head, recalling herself to the present. She took one final look in the glass, tossed her hair, and left the bedroom.

She found Stefan in the library, a grand chamber with rich oak panelling, possessing an abundance of pilasters and fluted columns, and its chief feature, a stunning 20-foot tray ceiling. The wall above the imposing Greek Revival mantel was ornamented with crossed swords: weapons borne by past Salvatores in the War Between the States. Hanging high above, in pride of place, was another historic relic. Tattered in places, the colours faded, the gold fringing devoid of sheen — the battle standard of the Confederacy, made by Stefan's great-great-great-grandmother. It had flown proudly at first Bull Run, known fear and triumph in Early's defence of Lynchburg, and was thumbed defiantly in the face of the Yankees when the same general cleared the Great Valley and frightened the living daylights out of D.C. It had then been hidden away in the difficult days of Reconstruction, only to reappear, born anew, once the Commonwealth was redeemed. And now, carefully stayed and tied high up against the plaster and its thick mouldings, it remained as a divisive symbol. Many times Elena had seen her father-in-law look up with reverent eyes. Equally, she'd noted that while Teena seemed immune to it, indeed, she was practically born into it, some of her relatives engaged to help out for big dinners cringed when they had to enter the chamber. Indeed, to Elena, it caused no discomfort. The battle flag, along with the faces of the heroes Lee, Jackson, Stewart and Early, was a warm and comforting part of growing up in what was still the South, changes in Northern Virginia be damned.

Somewhat worrying, however, were the lines that had encroached on Stefan's forehead. He was seated next to the fireplace, deep in an unfriendly-looking tome, in a richly upholstered armchair. Elena plonked down lightly beside him in an adjacent chair.

"In trouble with the law again?"

Stefan marked his page and shut the book with a sharp snap. "Trying to learn how I can legally avoid paying my taxes," he said, a perfunctory smile appearing on his face.

"You like financial law." Elena said, surprised.

"I do... I... I... just don't feel it today." He said.

"So don't", Elena replied, taking the book from his hands and dropping it on the side table. She reached across to him, pressing his face between her hands. "Don't worry Stefan," she said. "You always get high marks."

A more genuine smile spread from his lips. "Even when distracted by my sexy wife," he said, leaning across as his own hand fell to her cheek. Elena giggled.

"Even when distracted by your very sexy wife." She paused, suddenly serious. "I love you, Stefan."

"I love you, Elena." He replied.

Their kiss was interrupted by raucous clapping and laughter from the hall doorway.

"Should I take a picture? Marriage of the year."

Stefan sprang up, in front of Elena, as if to shield her. "Damon" he said, his voice grave. If she could have made the gesture invisible, Elena would have rolled her eyes. Elena regarded Damon as little more than a wind-up toy, an object to be played with for amusement and then cast aside when the next thing came along. When he became annoying or troubling, she simply ignored him.

Her annoyance now was not for herself but for her Stefan. Damon was the bane of his existence, always causing trouble. She rose too, putting her hands on Stefan's shoulders. She could feel the tension rising in his body, the force building like a wound spring. She extended one over his shoulder, across his chest, while she replaced the other to stroke the back of his neck.

It was a calculated move, both to love and claim Stefan and irritate Damon. It always worked. She opened her mouth, ready to speak for the same effect, but stopped short.

Giuseppe had appeared in doorway. The old lion roared, his chest heaved and his eyes burned, so infuriated was he at the presence of his errant son.

"Hello father," Damon replied, in a callous, silken tone.

Giuseppe advanced until they stood barely a foot apart.

"So what is the latest embarrassment that you damage our honour with?" He demanded.

"Always the same, father. Judging as if you were Solomon himself."

The dispute continued to its usual conclusion. After one final outburst of sound, Giuseppe flung his hands in the air and quit the room, stomping off to his office, housed in one of the outbuildings. Stefan hurried after him — it was always he who quelled the rage Damon fuelled in him.

Damon wandered over to the sideboard and made a generous pour into one of the tumblers.

"Drink Elena?" He asked, the tone cordial and relaxed.

"What's wrong with you?"

"I don't know what you mean, Elena"

"Yes, actually, you do, Damon."

He didn't reply, but Elena was undeterred. "In fact, Damon, you purposely set out to hurt Stefan and make him miserable. You take advantage of him, his caring nature."

Damon's face seemed to darken, the eyes narrowing, the lip curling into a spiteful stance.

"I? I take advantage of Stefan?" He said, his tone dangerously glassy. "No Elena, it is _you_ that abuses Stefan—you happily take his money and his love, but it's all false. You're a liar, Elena, a dirty liar. You know you love _me_!"

It was his manner, so off-hand, delicately provocative, delivered with such a smirk, that so infuriated Elena. With viper-like speed, she struck across the gap at Damon, slapping him with a force that surprised them both.

She took a breath and collected herself, turning to the door.

"Love, hate, it's such a fine line."

Elena didn't bother with a second glance. "Hate you Damon? No. I love Stefan, and I love to laugh at you."

Now it was she who smirked as she ascended the stairs to Stefan's bedroom. She flopped down lazily on the enormous mahogany bed, so high that there were steps up on either side. Uncle Ben had already been around and kindled the fire, turning on a few lamps low. Elena luxuriated in the semi-darkness, her eyes darting between the flames and the flickering light they cast across the room. Stefan's bedroom was the second master suite in the house—much bigger than all the rest, with a large attached bathroom featuring a lot of Italian marble and French granite. It irritated Damon to no end, this privilege of his 'little' brother.

Elena started as Stefan entered the chamber and sauntered across the room, flicking the door shut behind him. He launched himself atop her, the mattress shifting in protest. "Hey!" she said, surprised. She sniffed. "Stefan, are you drunk?"

He lifted his head from her neck. "A bit. Do you care?"

She giggled. "Not at all!"


End file.
